


Unconventional

by Tamanegi



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anne Lister meets crowley, Anne and ann are Married, Aziraphale Is Soft, Aziraphale and Crowley are also Married, Crowley is a Softie, F/F, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), I think I stole a line of dialogue from a meme, I'm sorry please don't sue me for plagiarism, M/M, No Angst, No plot whatsoever, Old Married Couple, all living happy lives, all my favourite gays in one fic, because I'm the author fuck you I do what I want, mild fluff if you squint, mlm/wlw solidarity, or plot, relationship-typical bickering, they are destined to be bffs, uuhhhhhh, why the fuck are they both called Ann(e)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-23 04:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamanegi/pseuds/Tamanegi
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley go to buy a misprint Bible from Anne Lister and Ann Walker. Anne and Crowley are kindred spirits.That's it that's the fic.





	Unconventional

**Author's Note:**

> Look idk what this is ok. I just really want them all to meet. Gnc Crowley and our beloved butch Anne Lister would 100% hit it off and don't try to tell me Ann and Aziraphale wouldn't either.
> 
> Anyone who can match character to angel (first paragraph, line beginning "And in this pub, are angels") gets a wahoo.

The encounter took place in an ordinary London pub, somewhere between Mayfair and Soho. The year was 1830-something, the name of the pub irrelevant and unmemorable. The majority of the pub's patrons were similarly irrelevant and unmemorable, save one table by the window  
And in this pub, are angels. One figurative. One literal. One former. One avenging.  
Two have yet to arrive.  
The other two are seated at the aforementioned table already, one with a drink in hand, the other with some small pink cake thing.  
One is a gangly, black-coated thing with a strong jaw and iron will. She wears a reluctant skirt, balances it out with a man’s jacket and hat, heavy boots and dark hair curled up in severe rolls about her face.  
The other is as pink and sweet as her desert. Angelic blonde hair, delicate pointed chin, tiny, delicate body.   
They make an odd couple, but perhaps not quite as odd as the one about to walk in.

Three, two, one…

Here they are.

They manage not to attract more trouble than the odd stare as the make their way to the table to introduce themselves.  
The first to reach the table is cloud-coloured, hair a white and wispy halo about a kind and smiling face. He puts out a white-gloved hand, introduces himself.  
“A.Z.Fell,” he says, blue eyes twinkling. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my associate, Crowley.”  
The dark woman shakes the proffered hand. “Anne Lister. And this is my, ah, associate, Miss Walker.”   
Miss Walker takes Mr. Fell’s hand and Miss. Lister moves on to Mr. Crowley and with beady eyes takes him in.  
The pair sit down and pleasantries are exchanged, about the weather, the state of the nation, what they’re putting in bananas these days, whatever.

Anne Lister is not listening. She is too busy taking in the peculiar creature that has just sat down in front of her. He’s tall, black-clad, skinny. Wears a top hat like she wears and trousers like she’d love to wear. But his jacket is cut like a woman’s, his cravat high at his throat and almost bow-like. His clothing is adorned with lace and brocade, and when he turns his head to glance at Mr. Fell, she sees that his fiery hair tumbles in curls down his back, restrained by a silky black ribbon.  
She wonders briefly, if she were to duck under the table right now and take a look, if his boots would be pointed or heeled like a woman’s too.

It’s at this point that her attention is abruptly drawn back to the conversation, much to her irritation.

Mr. Fell is looking at her expectantly. Though she can’t see behind those inscrutable dark lenses, she suspects Mr. Crowley is too.  
“Ah, yes, of course,” she splutters. “The book. Of course.” She reaches into the bag by her feet and pulls it out. She sees Mr. Fell’s face light up with interest as she places it on the table between them.  
“Aahh,” he sighs. “This is the one, is it? 1703?”  
“Uhh…”  
“Yes, that’s it,” Ann Walker says. “Been sitting in my father’s library for years. Can’t think why you might be interested, but you’re welcome to it.”  
Anne has approximately zero interest in bibles of any kind, nevermind one from 1703 that’s been sitting in the Walker family library for years and is now going to sit in A.Z.Fell and Co’s bookshop for even longer. She just wants to sell the damn thing and head back to Halifax with her wife.

No, that’s not quite right.

She wants to sell the damn thing and head back to Halifax with her wife, but not before she’s spent ample time studying the curiosity that is Mr. Crowley.

Mr. Fell has the bible on the table open and is tracing a finger lovingly down the verses.  
“Aha!” A pair of reading glasses has materialised on his nose while she wasn’t paying attention, and now he pushes them up. “Here- there’s a misprint in this edition that was made in around a hundred copies, all printed in Halifax’s main printing house in 1703… most were lost in a fire, so I think I’m right in saying that there are only three or four left, of which this is one.”  
Ann is riveted, sitting forward in her chair with her dessert pushed aside and forgotten. It makes Anne’s chest warm and it takes all of her iron will to keep a disgustingly smitten expression off her face.  
Mr. Fell is reading now, something about the Garden of Eden and an angel with a flaming sword. She’s not really listening. Too caught up in studying the expression of deep concentration on Ann’s cherubic face and waiting for them to move on to the money part of the transaction.  
Unfortunately, Mr. Fell and Ann have launched into a conversation about biblical mythology now, so it’s unlikely to happen any time soon.

At least this gives her time to get to the bottom of the enigmatic Mr. Crowley, who up until now has said nothing at all, done nothing but gaze fondly at Mr. Fell.  
At least, that’s what she thinks the look is. His dark glasses hide his eyes from the sides as well, but his thin lips curve up into the tiniest smile as he watches Mr. Fell ramble on about swords and apples and wily serpents.

“Where did you get that tattoo?” she blurts out. Immediately regrets it.   
“Ngk-” he jumps, swivels around to look at her. “Ah, this? God-given, you might say.” His hand has flown up to touch the little snake by his ear, and those long fingers and black-painted nails only fuel her burning curiosity.  
“Unusual for a gentleman like yourself to have a tattoo,” she says.  
His eyebrows go up, almost challenging. “Unusual for a woman like yourself to handle financial transactions,” he returns. “To travel so far without her husband.”  
She stares him down, having to guess roughly where his eyes are. “I’m not a conventional woman, Mr. Crowley,” she says. “Any more than you are a conventional man.”  
She’s gambling here. Losing could ruin her, but she’s so sure of this one. If Mr. Crowley’s painted nails and long hair weren’t enough, the fond glances would have given it away.  
He takes the glasses off for the first time. Anne tries not to flinch as his snake eyes bore into her skull.  
“Sure. And is your Miss Walker… unconventional, too?” he queries.  
“I could never marry a conventional woman.” Without breaking his gaze, she reaches over and takes Ann’s arm. Possessive, like she’s seen the men of Halifax do with their women. Ann breaks off her conversation to look at her quizzically, but she doesn’t respond.  
Mr. Crowley smiles. The glasses are back on, somehow. He reaches over to put his hand over Mr. Fell’s, twining their fingers together and turning them so their matching gold rings glint in the light. “Tickety boo,” he says.  
Mr. Fell gives him an indulgent smile. “What’s this, my dear?”  
“Nothing, angel, nothing.” He pats his arm. “How much was it that you wanted for this book?”  
“I think we agreed on a sum of fifty pounds,” Anne says. She’s feeling a little light headed, is grateful for Ann’s arm to ground her.  
“Wonderful,” Mr. Fell says. Mr. Crowley produces a bundle of notes from his breast pocket and slides it across the table to Anne, who pockets it.  
She feels a pang of regret that this is it, probably the last time she will see this similarly peculiar creature as her, this angular, feminine man and his soft, bookish husband.

And then they're standing up and Anne is opening her mouth to bid them goodbye, and it's at that moment that Mr. Crowley stops and lays a hand on Mr. Fell’s arm.  
“Hey, angel.” He’s looking straight at Anne. She can feel his reptilian eyes staring out from behind the glasses.  
“Yes dear?”  
“We’re not doing anything in particular this afternoon, why don’t we invite Miss Lister and Miss Walker back to the bookshop for a cup of tea?”  
“Tea, Crowley?” Fell stops fussing over his new acquisition for a moment to glance up at him.  
Crowley rolls his eyes and says, “Urg, fine. Alcohol.”  
Fell continues as if he hadn’t heard. “This is most unlike you, I must say. But why not, Miss Walker and I were having the most riveting discussion earlier that I certainly wouldn’t mind continuing.”  
“...and?”  
Fell’s ears turn a charming shade of pink. “And I have a nice bottle of 1603 Chateau Lafite waiting for us Crowley, are you happy now?”  
“Extremely.”

As the four leave the pub, it would take a Lister-sharp ear- or indeed, some convenient omniscience- to overhear Crowley as he leans into Aziraphale and whispers in his ear:  
“I think I just made a friend.”


End file.
